


Beyond the Blue Horizon

by melianthegreat



Series: Evil Genius James May [2]
Category: The Grand Tour (TV) RPF, Top Gear (UK) RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Evil Genius James May, Evil James, Evil Plans, World Domination
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-01
Updated: 2018-05-01
Packaged: 2019-04-30 20:28:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14504856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melianthegreat/pseuds/melianthegreat
Summary: Jeremy and Richard have to stop James again, but this time it's not a Death Ray.





	Beyond the Blue Horizon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RockyMountainRattlesnake (Snakefire)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snakefire/gifts).



> Another AU in which I get the silly on, which is fun to write. The title is an old song sung by a lot of people. I don't know how long this will last, but those who like my more angsty stuff may have something new soon. Enjoy

The early morning was warm for Great Britain, the sky a type of blue rarely seen. A perfect day to fly. But first there were procedures. James liked procedures. He made his external checks, all the while humming an old tune under his breath. Nobody could be unhappy on a day like this. Well, except for those for whom the day would become bad. But they wouldn't know that until it was too late. 

But that didn't matter. His good morning was about to become a whole lot better. Carefully he loaded something heavy into the plane, keeping a tarpaulin over it. James made sure in advance that he always kept perfect maintenance on his plane. You had to, because there was no knowing when you wanted to make a quick flight. Like today.

But a "quick flight" had procedures to follow beforehand. Weights and measures and pressures, making sure all the parts work. He had carefully weighed his bundle, making sure the combination of him and it were right for his plane. Didn't want to crash on takeoff because of overweight. And all the while James kept humming the song under his breath.

James moved to to the inside, checking everything he needed to check, which took a bit. But once satisfied, his half-muttered song burst out fully:

_Beyond the blue horizon waits a beautiful day._  
_Goodbye to things that bore me,_  
_Joy is waiting for me!_

And then he laughed. His mates, who liked to pretend they were Thunderbirds, weren't here, and now Thunderbird Fat or Thunderbird Short wouldn't stop him...

_**Meanwhile, in London** _

"Hammond, we got trouble!"

Richard opened his eyes and instantly regretted it. First, because he was badly hung over. Second, because he'd slept off his drunk on Jeremy's sofa. And third, because Jeremy was now leaning over him, and that face is the last thing you want to see when you're hungover and just slept off your drunk on someone's sofa.

"Bugger off, Clarkson," Richard groaned. "Let me sleep." But every time Hammond tried to go back to sleep Jeremy would simply shake him. When shaking wasn't getting the desired result, Jeremy resorted to poking him, and Richard _really_ hated that. Finally Hammond rolled over and sat up. "WHAT?!" he snapped.

Jeremy was nearly amused. Richard never woke up quickly or well, and hangovers made him worse. He handed Richard a cup of coffee and some painkillers. "James is at it again," he reported. 

Richard rolled his eyes. "Another death ray?" he asked in exasperation. "He's nothing if not predictable."

"I'm afraid not, " Jeremy answered. "This time it's a bomb, and he's using his plane to drop it."

"Oh, shit," Richard sighed. "The bastard won't even let me suffer through a hangover in peace!" He stomped off to the bathroom. It didn't take long for him to wash up and when he emerged he looked none the worse for wear; in fact it allowed the hamster wheel in his brain time to start turning. "Do you think we're too late to stop him?" he asked.

Jeremy stated at Richard as if he had two heads. "You've flown with May," he reminded his mate. "His pre-flight checks take an hour, and that's before he moves inside the plane. Then the cup of tea he drank this morning while doing the external checks will make him relieve that rather small bladder of his. And once he's done that he'll start all over again. So, in a word, no."

"Then we've not a moment to lose!" Richard declared. "Quick, to the Cockmobile!"

"Wait, what?" Jeremy spluttered. "Hammond, you never say that! We usually bicker over taking my car or tour's."

"We need all speed to drive to the airfield," Richard answered . "We may even have to block James as he leaves the hangar, and the Merc is long enough. And besides," here Richard blushed slightly , "I didn't bring the 911."

" _WHAT?!_ " 

"You want to yell about that now, you orangutan?" Richard replied, exasperated. "It's being serviced! Now, let's go!"

_**Meanwhile, at the Airfield**_

James emerged from the restroom, feeling a couple of pounds lighter from the cup of tea he'd enjoyed earlier. There were times it was most decidedly inconvenient, having a small bladder. But he was going to need to do that anyway before takeoff; pretty bad for aim of all you can think of is how badly you have to go. Then again, he chuckled to himself, it would have been fitting to have a flyby piss on Number 10. At least he felt better. Now he would start over with his inspection--something could have broken in the five minutes he was in the loo.

Once James was satisfied he started the plane and radioed for clearance. His cargo sat unobtrusively, or at least as unobtrusively as a guided bomb could sit. Hammond and Clarkson were always complaining about how predictable he was, and in terms of invention he had been stuck in a rut; just how many death rays could one evil genius build? Those two arses weren't going to complain about his predictability anymore. In fact they wouldn't be complaining about much of anything: if his plan worked some foreign power would be blamed for a smart bomb falling on Number 10, everyone would take sides, and someone would push a great big threatening button. And then it would be all over. No more bullshit, no more boredom, no more health and safety forms, no more clearances. Where would James be? Off flying, searching that blue horizon, happy and joyous and free. Maybe he should go find a hollowed out volcano and set up a lair in the South Pacific.

Of course his thoughts led to wondering if he should let Jeremy and Richard in on his plans; they were his mates after all, and because of that they deserved to have a chance at surviving. They might possibly talk him out of this, and if they did they would simply try to help him. They'd find a tiny private clinic somewhere beyond prying eyes, he'd have a lovely little sabbatical, and he'd come back home refreshed and ready to go. He certainly didn't mind that.

Except he did. Those people being condescending toward him, talking to him like he had an IQ of four when announcing meals. Giving him meds he didn't ask for while having to sit through Arts and Crafts sessions where he had to put together jigsaw puzzles and not allowed to reassemble things because that required tools, and he wasn't allowed to have sharp things. And then there was always at least one patient who recognized him, who went around constantly calling him Captain Slow and asking incessantly what Jeremy and Richard were really like. 

No. Better to let those two idiots take their chances like everyone else. Besides, he just wasn't sure there'd be enough room for three massive egos inside a hollowed out volcano. He had to be the evil genius, and they wouldn't want to be henchmen for long.

James was instructed over the radio which runway to use. He taxi'd to it. Now he would have to sit and wait.

Everyone wanted to fly today!

_**Meanwhile, on the way to the Airfield** _

There was a proper row going on in the Cockmobile:

"Hammond, saying the new 911 is better than the new Subaru is ridiculous. Anything is better than the new Subaru, even the Vauxhall. And it pleases me none to say that." 

"Okay, fine," Richard grumbled, "let's get back to the matter at hand."

"Exactly, " Jeremy agreed. "I should be the one to defuse the bomb. "

"Why?" Richard arched an eyebrow.

"Because you're much better at talking May down in these situations. You can get him to come quietly."

Richard sighed. "Jez, do you remember the time you bashed that death ray with a hammer and set fire to James' garden shed? You almost got us blown up! Defusing a bomb requires a set of precision tools, not a sledgehammer."

"A sledgehammer works. It will destroy the bomb. "

"It _will_ make the airfield a mushroom cloud," Richard declared, firing Jeremy's comment back. "And we'll be dead. The scenario I'd like to avoid, if you don't mind."

"With your history, I question that," Jeremy smirked. They turned down a side road. "Shortcut," he told Hammond as he sped up.

"Wait, this road dead-ends into the airfield," Richard replied. "There's a fence. We can't do this!"

"Says who?" Jeremy answered, gripping the steering and and getting a very determined look on his face. "It's either this or watching May blow something up."

The fence loomed in front of them. Richard braced himself as Jeremy yelled _POWER!!_ and propelled forward.

_**Meanwhile, at the Airfield** _

James was back to singing the song in his head. Everyone would have a laugh and say it was what James would sing, considering the song was old and James was old, obviously born in the 50's, if not earlier. But to hell with them. This was the right song for the right time, and he intended to sing it while the bomb guided itself to its destination, and as he continued to fly to his escape. And then as he sailed the South Seas in search of his hollowed out volcano.

The queue for takeoff was down to him. Any minute now he'd be given the word he was clear.

Suddenly a Mercedes Benz AMG was bursting through a fence next to the runway and screeching to a halt right in front of his plane. Jeremy jumped out first, hammer at the ready. Richard was behind him; Jeremy obviously had released the latch for the door that Richard pushed open with his feet, otherwise Hammond would never have reached it.

"Oh, cock!" James shouted inside the plane. "It's the Cockmobile!" Before he had another chance to come up with another idea, James ripped the tarp off the bomb and pushed the button to arm it. Then he was grabbed and pulled out of the plane. 

"You blithering idiot! What the fuck did you just do?" Jeremy roared at James, towering over him.

"Hammond was still inside the plane, his face gone white. "He armed it, Jezza," he announced. "Oh dear God..."

"Then you have no time to lose," Jeremy answered, tossing Richard his canvas travel bag he loved so much. "Disarm that thing now or we're going to be vaporized! You--" he turned his attention back to James, clutching his shirt firmly, "--are going no-fucking-place. If I'm about to be vaporized into nothing, you're standing at Ground Zero with me."

_**Meanwhile, in the Plane** _

Richard carefully opened the casing for the trigger assembly, trying to recall everything he ever learned. He'd always been keen on science and engineering and technology, the books he often carried on his travels while filming betraying his image as completely thick. But he learned the most from James May. For all the complaining of his being pedantic, James explained everything in detail. It had been his defense mechanism to rapidly run through something technical or scientific or historic, wait for eyes to glaze over, and then move on without much debate. Richard Hammond had been one of the few whose dark eyes would glow, patiently wait him out, and then James would actually _show_ and _explain_ and _instruct_. It was one of the reasons Richard always appeared bored and annoyed at James and Jeremy on camera when they'd get sidetracked by planes or old missile silos; if he'd participated, they would have been there for hours, and his cover as a complete dumbass would've been blown. Bad enough people knew he had talent as a painter and a bassist--geeky super intelligence would've been too much.

Of course this was all before James went batshit. The trigger was a confusing bunch of wires Hammond couldn't understand.

And then Richard hit on an idea...He was thinking rationally. To understand Batshit technology, one must think Batshit. He was going to have to channel James, and quickly. The timer was down to 1:30.

Richard looked back at the wiring and saw one red, one green, one blue, one yellow, and one white wire. He thought about cutting one wire, but James would make it more difficult than that. He thought about cutting the red, white, and blue wires because those represented Britain, and he really didn't like Britain sometimes. He thought about leaving red, white, and blue alone and only cutting the yellow or green wires, because the red, white, and blue represented Britain, and he really loved Britain sometimes.

Ten seconds to go, Richard finally hit on a very batshit thought. He grabbed some large scissors. And with a wild scream (because if he was wrong he wanted to able to tell God he died screaming, soaring over the Pearly Gates on fire), he cut all five wires at once.

_**Later** _

Richard taxi'd the plane back to the hangar, where Jeremy and James were waiting with the Cockmobile. Climbing out he looked absolutely smug. Throwing out his chest and smiling like a superhero, he crowed, "Let me find a place to rest my big balls!" Then he walked over to a table by the door and made a show of handling some very oversized (and imaginary) testes and placed them on the table. "CLANG!!"

Jeremy laughed, then turned his attention back to James. "What do you have to say for yourself, May?" he demanded .

James glared at Jeremy. "That my plan would have succeeded if it weren't for you meddling pillocks," he answered. "So, what are you going to do with me? Turn me over to the rozzers? Send me off for a little rest? You know whatever you decide it's not going to stop me. It might make me ease off for a little while, but sooner or later you'll have to stop me again."

Richard and Jeremy glanced at each other. "He does have a point," Jeremy muttered.

"But we have to do _something_ , Jeremy," Richard muttered back. "We just can't overlook the fact he was going to blow people up."

"I know. That's a problem." He sighed. "Tell you what," he said to James. "Let's go back to my place and discuss all of this. We have to sort out what do. May, ride with me. Hammond will follow in yours."

"Fine," James grumbled in reply. "Hammond, nor changes in my capHammond 

Hammond sighed. "Pedant," he whispered under his breath.

_**Six Months Later** _

Interesting what money will buy you.

Food and clothes and houses and cars, sure. Nice holidays in great accommodation, okay. Freedom do whatever you want was the best.

Richard and Jeremy sat on deck chairs and stared at the early evening sun, sipping on cocktails. Mindy was already at their destination, so was Andy Wilman and Jeremy's girlfriend. They were probably already staring at the same sun, under the same sky.

When they'd taken James back to Jeremy's flat to decide what to do this idea wasn't even in existence. James had explained his motivation for such a plot, and to a sober mind it was rather harebrained. After a few drinks, not so much. After several more, this idea reared its head. There were details and logistics added, and then the lunacy took over. They had planned it out drunk and they weren't exactly sober when they executed it. Now they were reasonable and marvelled that they'd gotten away with it.

The first part of the plot took a couple of months. Then they had to wait for perfect weather conditions. They stole a plane so it wouldn't be traced back to James (in fact, the plane had been registered to Piers Morgan). 

The reports of what happened next were beyond the astonishment of viewers of the BBC, listeners on the radio, and readers worldwide. It became the stuff of legend. Of discussion about politics and discord. Of protest. Of anarchy. Of artistic expression and a comment on the human condition in modern England. There were so many reactions and interpretations of the event, talk radio lines were still jammed with those who wanted to discuss it. And not just in England. It actually made the discussion roundtables on Sunday morning news programs in America for weeks and was even the topic of a speech in the United States Congress. 

The guys carpet bombed Number 10. With water balloons. 

And not all the water balloons were filled with water. That was the product of beer and wine and Gin and whatever else could be found in Jeremy's liquor cabinet. Such was the level of global political discourse in those mad days.

The fact they pulled it off in the first place was daft. The fact they weren't suspected in it was beyond crazy, even as Richard and Jeremy drunkenly, robustly, and joyously sang the final lines of the song into the radio ( _I see a new horizon, my life has only begun/Beyond the blue horizon lies a rising sun_ ). The fact they managed to sneak out of the continent unmolested by anyone was so far beyond batshit that even bats were insulted by the association.

But James May had connections, oh yes he did. And he had a mighty stash of money, as they all had; for all the external trappings, none of them had spent much of their hard-earned cash on candy. So after landing in Calais James' connections gave them fake passports with fake names and IDs and they scarpered, finally arriving in Sydney and chartering a freighter for the South Pacific...where James had bought a hollowed out volcano, hollowed it out some more to make sure it wouldn't unexpectedly blow up, and renovated it for all of them to live in as a holiday home.

"So, how long do you think it will be before May starts having delusions again?" Jeremy asked as he stared at the sun beginning to set. Richard motioned to everything around them. "Okay, let me rephrase," he laughed, "how long until he gets a delusion we have to stop?"

"Who knows?" Richard answered. "But you do realize if James figures out we're not really all-in on any of this, and we've only come along to stop him from destroying the world for the sake of our kids, we're as good as dead and our bodies chucked over the side of this ship."

"Yep," Clarkson agreed. "So we go along with some things, and when he gets too nuts in his thinking and goes into true Evil Genius mode, we try to find ways to gently talk him out of it." 

Richard nodded. "I hope that works," he said.

"I've heard it's what they're doing in the White House and it's worked so far," Jeremy replied, "and they're not even mates with the guy. It has to work for us."

James emerged from the inside as Richard and Jeremy were clinking their glasses together in agreement. "I'm told dinner will be ready soon," he smiled at them. "Do you intend to eat, or are you two planning to stay out here and drink?"

Hammond glanced at Clarkson, who shrugged. "Can we have a table set up out here and do both?" Richard asked.

"Why not?" James answered . "I'll talk to them. And I'll leave the musicians out here to play." He started to leave, then turned back. "By the way, I'm glad we're going to be here together on this."

Jeremy smiled. "Why not?" he replied. "Things are always more fun with your mates along. And if I wasn't half-drunk right now, you'd never hear me say that."

James laughed and went back inside. The crew members who were acting as musicians launched into a Polynesian version of a familiar song. Separately and together, both men thought about what lay ahead. And it involved a gloriously beautiful sun rising on a hollowed out volcano.

The End


End file.
